


Interrogation.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels), valuna



Series: LJ roleplaying [6]
Category: LOTR RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-20
Updated: 2003-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valuna/pseuds/valuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interrogation roleplay with Viggo on top and Sean ending up in the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrogation.

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairing**: Sean/Viggo, OC/OC, Mentions of Sean's torrid past with Branagh, O'Malley, Purefoy, and Terry.
> 
> **Rating**: NC-17 for **extreme warnings**. Bondage, roleplay, cigarette burns, physical abuse, asphyxiation. Bones are broken. Wrists are sprained. And, in the end, something is solved. Or, at least, a little better than it was before.
> 
> **Disclaimer: ** It's fiction. I'm pretty sure they aren't seeing each other, and even if they were, I'd bet they don't do this.
> 
> **Content: ** An interrogation roleplay with Viggo on top and Sean ending up in the hospital. We don't exactly think this is good to do very often in real life. Lots of violence. Lots of demeaning talk. This way of working through bad relationships could probably be easily supplanted with therapy and have all the parties better off for it. Like the other fics, there is an existing d/s relationship.
> 
> **Notes on reality of people reading this: ** Like "Assume the Position", "What's On The Other Side?", and "London Calling", the creative process for this was fascinating, and the SeanVig muses led us down expected crevices into their minds. In other words, it kind of just happened.
> 
> **A Note On Canon:** This was written in August. Therefore, Viggo's birthday was a while off. :p
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> Originally posted at http://community.livejournal.com/rugbytackle/302788.html and http://community.livejournal.com/rugbytackle/303058.html
> 
> Roleplaying-in-comments post was http://www.livejournal.com/users/lannamichaels/92481.html?thread=750913

Month's shopping over, and Viggo's rummaging through the bags, looking for something he stashed away. He pulls out a small oval package and a square one. "Clothespins. Nylon rope."

Nylon rope Sean can live with. "Abrades a bit more than the cotton, but it is more durable and there won't be any of that breaking in the middle of bondage nastiness."

Viggo blinks. "It's broken before? Sean, dear, just _what_ else have you been hiding from me?"

"Well, there is that new set of handcuffs I was saving for your birthday." Sean's grin is utterly unrepentant wicked.

"My birthday's in October. By then they won't be new." Viggo tosses them onto the kitchen counter. "Anything else?"

"Well, technically, they would still be new, cause I didn't plan on using them till then." Sean's tongue slides out and quickly back in. "But, I'm guessing my plans just got changed."

"You are very correct. So, tell me, boy. Who was to wear these handcuffs?" Viggo raises an eyebrow, crosses arms.

"Why that's a right silly question, Vig." Sean leans against the wall. "I'm much more used to them than you'll ever be." He shrugs hands into jeans pockets. "Unless you're wanting to do a bit of reverse roleplay."

"I notice you didn't answer the question." Viggo slams Sean against the wall, kisses him. "But right now I don't much care. How 'bout you strip and then we can test out how nice these much-lauded handcuffs are?"

Sean ignores the hand crushed between his back and the wall, the fingers that really need to be shaken back into reality. "Losing your touch, Vig," he says, punctuating the questionsentence with a smile and subtle head nod. He wraps his fingers in the hem of the Henley, pulling it up and over his head. "Normally you wouldn't have given me the opportunity to get out of the clothes first." His arms are stretched up the wall, hands balling up the blue cotton.

"Let's just say that I'm tired of finding old clothes for you to wear so I can beat them off you. And while I don't mind it, your nipples taste better without cotton covering them." Viggo backs enough just enough that Sean can't kick him while getting out of his jeans and gives his lover his best leer.

Sean has to smile at the way Viggo backs up. Lack of trust? He throws the wadded shirt in the general vicinity of the hallway, toes out of his trainers and pools the denim somewhere to the left of his feet. "Of course not cotton. It doesn't mix well with the jasmine-scented candle wax you prefer them covered in." In the back of his brain, in that little spot northeast of his libido, he wonders at what point in their relationship did he become so willing to do everything Vig asked, on command.

"There is that," Viggo agrees. "You wouldn't happen to have these handcuffs close on hand, would you?"

"Hall closet, top shelf, blue box." Sean crosses his wrists above his head. "Close enough?"

"Yeah." Viggo takes hold of Sean's wrists and separates them. He brings them down to in front of Sean's waist and begins to pull him towards the hall.

Wrists together, wrapped in Viggo's fingers, slight pressure, just enough to keep Sean from slipping out of the headspace he's gliding into. He hadn't planned on playing tonight, but since Vig's in the mood, he might as well go with the flow.

Viggo leads Sean in front of the closet and drops wrists so he can open the door and take down the dark blue box. It's heavier than he expected. There's obviously more than handcuffs in here. He shakes it around and then hands it to Sean. "Do the honors, if you will."

"Sure you want it now." Sean looks from the box to Vig's face. "It was supposed to be your birthday prezzie." In that naughty little region of his brain, he's praying Vig says yes cause he sure as hell's in the mood to play and he fucking well can go buy another gift tomorrow.

"I've never been big on waiting," Viggo says and then taps the top of the box. "So, open. Let's see what you got me."

Sitting the box on the floor, Sean kneels in front of it. He'd started collecting the gift weeks earlier, adding things as he saw them. He tilts the lid off to the side and pulls out the expected first. "Regulation issue," he says, holding two pair of handcuffs up to Viggo. "Double locking." Rather painful, Sean doesn't add.

"Good start." And they already have some furred cuffs that Viggo keeps locked around the bottom of the bed, so Viggo figures he'll be able to spread-eagle Sean with little fuss. "What else did you get me?"

Sean lifts out a smaller box, opens it and pours the contents partially into his hand. Two candles and a vial of lotion. "Beeswax, of course," he says. "The oil's a sweet almond." Sean had just the least bit of hesitancy on showing Vig the last of the box's contents.

Viggo likes the juxtaposition of the oil and the candles. So far, so good. "And?" He prompts, knowing that there's at least one more thing left.

Sean takes in a deep breath and reaches back into the box. He pulls out a thick, heavy roll of black electrical tape that's tangled in an olive drab t-shirt. Sean holds them up, one in either hand. "I was thinking ..." He shifts the tape into the hand with the shirt and pulls out a long length of heavy black cloth, jaggedly cut just the perfect width to be doubled over for a blindfold. "You might, uh, like a little roleplay."

"Do horses like water?" Viggo grins and takes the tape from Sean. He balances it on his knuckles, throws it up, and catches it. "This is going to be fun. What did you have in mind?"

"Interrogation." Sean blurts out the single word without thinking. Actually, he's been thinking a lot about it. That word. That act. What Viggo could do to him. Would do. He looks up, letting the smile, the hint of tongue between teeth convey the unspoken desires.

Viggo freezes. His mouth makes a little 'o' of surprise. He hadn't known Sean, er, _swung_ that way. Viggo puts the electrical tape down with exaggerated care and then straightens. He stretches in front of Sean's face, arching his back, pleased by the sounds of Sean's obvious reaction.

Viggo pops his back and then piles the supplies back in the box. He keeps the shirt out, however, and throws it at Sean's chest. "Put that over your neck, take the box, and follow me."

"Yes, sir," Sean snaps. He pulls the shirt on just as Viggo'd instructed, picks up the box and stands, following his lover's lead. Be careful what you wish for, he silently cautions himself as the arousal of fantasy become reality courses through his body.

"Drop the 'sir'," Viggo orders. "And just what shall I be questioning you about, boy? Your continual lack of respect? Your infatuation with the idea that you don't deserve happiness?"

"Whatever suits your fancy, Vig. Don't expect I'll be answering." Sean pauses, just a few steps behind Viggo. "And if you're going to complain about my continual lack of respect, why tell me not to call you sir?"

"Because bad boys are surly. And I'm going to need a reason to punish you afterwards." Viggo turns the corner into the master bedroom. "How far do you want to go? Until I rip your safeword from you?"

Surly. Punish. The words echo in Sean's brain, rattling lose old emotions as he follows Viggo into the bedroom. He deposits the box on the bed's edge without asking permission. Surly enough for you? "Far enough for a safeword." Sentence flavored with a touch of disbelieving bravado. Stance just cocky enough to be insubordinate. "You can try, Vig."

"Trying is overrated. I prefer to do." The bedroom usually doubles as their playroom, but Viggo still finds it difficult to hunt up a suitable chair. He finally finds a wooden straight-back hidden in the closet. He places it on the wrong side of the bedtable and then places the box within easy reaching distance. He glances from Sean to the chair, wondering if words are really necessary at this point.

No words required. Sean knows what to do, the position. He's been there before, long ago and far away in a different headspace altogether. He sits down, legs spread slightly apart. He anticipates the pain. Or rather the physical pain. Prepares for it. He rotates his neck, loosening the muscles and tendons, and shrugs his shoulders up and back before settling into what would be the most natural position, hands palms up against the chair back. Takes a deep breath, centers himself as much as he can for the assault to come.

Viggo pulls the shirt down and manipulates Sean's arms so that it hangs more or less naturally. Viggo rummages in the box for a few moments then takes the double locking cuffs from the box and handcuffs Sean's wrists behind his back. He uses the electrical tape the bind Sean's ankles to the legs of the chair and then, laying a layer of gauze from the First Aid kit first, he binds Sean's cock to his left thigh.

The burn in his deltoids is quick, almost comforting, as his shoulders adjust to the locked position. And he'd expected the tape on his ankles. Only natural to secure them, he thinks through; wouldn't want to be kicking out. But it is Vig's unexpected use of the binding electrical tape that catches in Sean's chest, along with the term _fucking bastard_, left silent in his throat. he straightens his back, shifting the discomfort out along his spine, waiting to see where Vig plans to take him.

Viggo watches Sean's reaction, then nods. Pretty good for improvisation. "Do you know why you're here?"

Sean tilts his head back, lets out a breath and then straightens again. "Got caught." Simple. Snarky. Oh, the game is going to be so much fun.

"If this had been anything more than a training exercise, 17, it wouldn't be me here. And they sure as hell wouldn't be as gentle as I am. You cannot allow yourself to get caught. Not only is it unprofessional," Viggo leans back and grabs Sean's jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye, "it's stupid. Now. Tell me what you did wrong."

Sean laughs. Gentle lasts all of six seconds as his head is snapped up. He stares at Viggo, unflinching. Too early in the game, training exercise or not. "Didn't avoid the trap. Should've turned left instead of right. Something like that." The words came out clipped with Viggo's hand holding Sean's jaw.

"'Something like that'," Viggo mocks. "You discharged your weapon at an _inanimate object_t. You failed to make the bridge rendezvous. And then you had the unfortunate luck to fall into my hands." Viggo drops Sean's jaw abruptly. "You disgust me."

"So what's new, LT?" Sean's sarcasm is as thick as Viggo's mock disgust. He shakes his head, shifts his shoulders, knows from experience to take every opportunity to stay ahead of kinked muscles. "Can't recall the last time I didn't disgust you."

"Oh," Viggo says delicately, touching his tongue to his upper lip. "I can. Christmas training, two years back. You remember, don't you?" Viggo leans down so he's face to face with Sean, and leers. "You were all. Over. Me."

"Sorry, LT. Wasn't me what started it." Viggo's closeness ratchets up the game's discomfort level, Sean's cock stiffening against its gauze and tape confines. But that doesn't deter the smirk on Sean's lips on the carefully enunciated words. "I was just responding to your initiation of fraternization."

"You tripped me," Viggo replies. "I fell on top of you. That does not constitute an invitation." Viggo shakes his head. "Old history. You may be sucking my dick later tonight, 17, but I can assure you, it won't be because you want to."

Sean stays in character, bites back the retort that he'd like to be doing just that, right now. "Don't recall cocksucking being part of special ops training. Must've dozed during that part of the briefing."

"Shut it, 17. You remember the training. What happens if you get caught?" Viggo doesn't wait for an answer. "No. Mercy. If I want you sucking my cock, you'll suck my cock. If I want you to beg, you'll beg. And if I want you to hurt, you'll hurt. Clear?"

"Crystal," Sean spits out. "Name. Rank. Serial number. You want it in order?"

"No. First I want to hear you scream. Then I want to hear you curse. And once you're hoarse from begging me to stop, _then_ I'll ask for your stats. Not before." Viggo kicks Sean hard just below the knee, aiming more for the muscle part of his leg rather than the bone.

The pain jolts through Sean's leg, leaving a nice throbbing sensation as Sean clamps down on his reaction, not willing to give Vig the satisfaction of knowing just how hard he hit. Definitely not screaming or cursing or saying much of anything.

"Well, 17? Too little?" Viggo sneers as he watches Sean's facial muscles work to contain whatever Sean was going to say or do. Viggo repeats the assault on Sean's other leg, increasing the force only slightly. "Too much? Think about what I can do to you. You're bound and at my tender mercies. How much will it take to make you flunk this course and walk out? Weaklings aren't allowed much further in, 17. It's time for you to decide just how much you can take."

Shit. While it isn't a heavy boot, Viggo's kicks are putting a dent in Sean's flesh. And that last one bypasses muscle to crack against bone, or at least that's the way it feels as the pain radiates out and up Sean's leg. "Fuck it. I can take every minute of what you give me." It's like a role. Play it through. "If you want me out of this unit so bad, LT, you're gonna have to a helluva lot worse than that." For the moment, Sean forgets admonitions of being careful what you wish for. He's too wrapped in the moment, too mesmerized by what he's pulling out of Viggo.

"So that's what you want, eh? Never pegged you for a glutton for punishment, 17. But with the way you smoke, I shouldn't be surprised." This time the kick is delivered to Sean's midsection.

"Now, I'm only going to ask you once. Who's your commanding officer?"

"Fuck you." Sean rasps out the curse in a breathless gasp. The pain in his stomach doesn't hurt nearly as much as the sudden jerk of his left shoulder from being forced to bend forward and then jerking back up too soon.

"Not an acceptable answer, 17. Even an idiot like you knows which consequences go with which actions. Why, I could almost start to believe you _like_ being hurt."

"And you get off on hurting me." Sean slurs out the words. He straightens up, pushing his back against the chair. "So we're pretty much alike, aren't we, LT?"

"Don't compare me to you, 17," Viggo says frostily. "I passed this course. I didn't get caught in infrared."

"Wasn't my fucking fault intell was faulty." Sean's cock picks that inopportune time to remind him exactly where he is and who he's with and what he wants. He winces at the double-edged arousal. He takes a deep breath, centers himself, refocuses on the mission. "Getting here undetected was just part of the mission. I ain't flunked yet."

Viggo's ears prick up. "What was that I just heard? A prisoner giving away free information to his captor?" Viggo laughs shortly and cuffs Sean behind his ear. "Dig yourself in deeper, 17. There's no rule that says I have to let you out of that chair."

Sean shakes off the light blow. "Didn't tell my _captor_," he says the word with exaggerated sarcasm, "one godfuckingdamned thing he didn't already know. Intell's always faulty." Smiles slightly. "And what kind of mission would it be if my only objective was getting to this hovel?" Shifts, ignores the burn in his groin and the fact that Viggo's last statement has him just a little more concerned than any threat of violence. The chair's uncomfortable at best.

"But you weren't supposed to be getting to this hovel. The path you were following led in the complete other direction. You can't even manage to fuck up properly, can you, 17?"

_Ever think I might've fucked up on purpose, LT? Just so I could get fucked over by you?_ The thought careens through Sean's brain, but he stops the words just short of falling off his tongue. Slides the unspoken words off into a smirk. "I think I fucked up rather well." Sean shrugs his shoulder back an inch or so, stretching out the kinking muscle. He doesn't know why that left shoulder if bothering him so, wonders if he's about to dislocate something.

Viggo slaps Sean hard, forcing him back into the chair. "Of course you did. It's the only thing you have talent for, isn't it? All you do is fuck up. But I would have thought you could have curbed your habit in the face of a _live-fire zone_!" Viggo finds himself shouting and forces himself to slow his breathing. "You could have been killed out there, trainie! This is **not** a place for fucking up. You want to do that, you could have stayed in your old unit. No one made you volunteer for this. But seeing as how you did, I expect the best from you.

"And I repeatedly haven't got it."

_Bad boys are surly._ Wasn't that what Viggo said? Before he recovers completely from the slap, Sean cocks his head, looks up at his captor. "Ah, you care." The blow isn't hard enough to knock him over. That's a good thing. And not hard enough to draw blood, Sean realizes as he works his tongue over teeth and inside cheek. Hard enough to leave a bruise, though, and he smiles at that thought. Nasty one, too, but Sean's sure it's only one of many his body'll have by the end of the night. "What do you want from me? Screaming? Begging? Ain't gonna do it, LT. Not just to prove how good I am."

"Of course I care. Do you have any idea how much time and money is invested in every single one of you worthless, pathetic worms? Your kind disgusts me. You think you can just cruise through this without putting in any effort. I know your type. You think that if you just sit there and take this abuse, then in a few hours, it'll be over. So let me clue you in, 17. It don't work like that around here.

"I'm your trainer. In my hands are the power of life or death, not just pass or fail. So you better start showing a little respect!"

"Ain't got much choice, now, do I, 'cept to sit here and take the abuse. You got me taped to the damned chair." And work real hard to ignore the arousal. Sean moves his left leg as much as the tape will allow, shifts his hip slightly. "You want respect? Pull it out of me."

"Whole point of this exercise," Viggo mutters, then louder, "I suspect the only respect I would get from you that way is the grudging kind. I'm not asking for loyalty, or even trust. But I've done shit you could never do. 'S not a dare, it's a fact." Viggo kicks the bottom of the chair and then walks around to Sean's left side to bend over and whisper in his ear. "So at least act like you give a shit, or you're never getting out of this. I wonder how long it would take for you to waste away to a skeleton. Cruel and unusual punishment doesn't stretch this far."

The kick jars the chair, jumps it back a nudge, enough to startle Sean. Not enough, he says a silent prayer in thanks for, to tilt it, topple him backwards or sideways. Viggo's not pushing the envelope quite that far. Yet. Sean stays silent rather than blasting out with expletives, contemplates just how far he wants to push his lover. "Fuck off, LT," Sean spits out. And as Vig leans closer, he whips his head around, connecting with Vig's jaw. The headache is instant, albeit not intense. "That giving enough of a shit for you?"

Viggo flinches a little too late to avoid the contact. He knows it'll hurt Sean more than it hurt him, but that doesn't help the pain any. "No." Viggo says mildly and then kicks the chair over onto its side. "That was stupid, 17. You never antagonize the one who could easily kill you." Viggo takes a step forward and positions himself so the chair, and Sean, are between his legs. "Remember your training, you idiot. You got caught. What's your number one goal after that?"

Now that hurt. "Bloody hell," Sean mutters. He knew it was coming, but he wasn't quite ready for the intensity of the pain ricocheting through his body as that damned shoulder takes a good bit of the fall's force. "Escape," he blurts out. The cuffs tighten as his wrists slam against the chair back. "Or not getting myself killed," he adds under his breath.

Until he safewords, Viggo reminds himself sternly. This isn't real. Sean can stop this any time he chooses. "'Escape'," Viggo repeats. "Yes. But what _first_?"

Sean searches his brain for the answer Viggo wants. He isn't fucking SAS, he reminds himself, so what does he know. He starts rambling out what he thinks training would've given him, low mutters, audible but almost to himself. "Assess situation. Determine liability. Routes of escape. Maintain focus." The weight of his body and the chair are pressing on his shoulder, along the upper arm muscles pinned under the wood. "Everyone gives in on the third day." He laughs as the last thought comes to him, a line from _Sharpe_.

And that sets off a chain reaction, brain processing time and place, body recalling what others' hands subjected him to, soul reclaiming the exact moment he knew he was addicted to the pleasure-laden pain. The moan is buried in a sigh as all the memories race through his bloodstream, straight to his restrained, the fact of which suddenly aggravates him considerably, cock.

Viggo didn't expect such a heated reaction to his words, but ignores the surprise. "Misinformation," he says slowly, stressing every syllable. "So, 17, I ask again. Who is your commanding officer?"

Mis-in-for-ma-tion. Sean silently mouths the words and mentally slaps himself. "Sharpe," he says resolutely. "No, wait. He got promoted. Must be Harper." _Okay, have some fun with i_t. "You did mean immediate superior?"

"Yes," Viggo says, word clipped and angry. "Who is your _commanding officer_? It's not a difficult question, prisoner. It's not going to harm your chain of command."

Sean smiles, winces, settles on a half-smirk. The exchange would be more fun if his shoulder weren't hurting so damned much. And his cock wasn't so damned hard. But he's not nearly in enough pain to want to safeword out of the situation. In fact, he's guessing it's only going to get more interesting.

"Well, that's a problem. Can't recall his name. I remember the face. Handsome bugger at that." He swallows back whatever's tempting to come out of his throat. Laugh. Moan. Whimper. He's not sure. But he's damned if it's getting a voice.

Viggo's not sure if he should be pleased or pissed. As Sean's commanding officer, at least in this scenario, that would paint him handsome. But, of course, Sean's supposed to be lying. Viggo settles for grabbing the front of Sean's shirt in one hand and the back of the chair in the other and lifting it back up. "So what do you call him? 'Sir'? Hardly believe _that_. You don't strike me as the sort to actually be polite."

"Fuck." Sean reacts to the sudden change in position. He was just getting used to being on the floor. His head spins from the blood rush. "Oh, I call him Sir. To his face," he says, shaking his head clear of the pressure change. "He'd prefer master, but he's not getting it." Pain tolerable. Viggo's jerking him up may've actually solved that left shoulder problem. Still the major hard-on to zone out of his brain. "Now, behind his back ..."

"Well?" Viggo prompts. "What do you call your superior behind his back?" He's actually somewhat curious. In a roundabout way, Sean's talking about him.

Sean turns his head up, stares at Viggo, enunciates each word carefully. "Arrogant. Demanding. Right proper bastard he is." He slicks his tongue over his lips. "Course, he'd take that as a bloody compliment."

Oh. Well, then. Viggo lets out a breath. Nothing he hadn't heard before in screams and curses when he's had Sean tied and at his mercy. Not a compliment, but it doesn't kill the mood. "Those aren't names, you fool. Stop talking around it and tell me what the fuck is the name of your superior!"

Sean takes in a deep breath, lets it out, trying to redistribute the tension building in his shoulders and across his pecs, wondering exactly how long one has to sit still before legs go numb, knowing that he's not anywhere near that far gone. He expected his response to agitate Viggo more than it did. "You want a name? Sure." Sean pauses. "Mortensen. Like it?" Sean's not sure if that's the way to go, but it's a different tactic.

"It'll do." Viggo allows, and then slaps Sean across the face. "Trainie, just _who_ told you to tell the truth?"

The sting of Viggo's hand is exquisite, perfect pain. "Who says I told you the truth?" Sean laughs. "You asked for a name. I gave you one."

"Because you were too casual about it, 17. Like you were trying to make me believe it was a lie. Dammit, trainie, if you can't lie convincingly this far into your life...!" Viggo leaves the sentence unfinished and pulls Sean's hair back so that Sean's looking him straight in the eyes. "Now. Interrogation continues, and you better make me believe your lies. If you haven't realized by now how invaluable this practice is, 17, then I despair of you ever passing."

"Yes. Sir." Sean grates out the words, his throat stretched out by the position Viggo has him in. Gazing into Viggo's eyes, he sees just how far into the roleplay his lover is sinking. _Oh, this was too good to wait till his birthday._

"Good." Viggo tightens his grip. "So. Where are you Headquarters?"

"Hereford. Unit's deployed out of Culdrose." The half-truth trips off Sean's tongue, a mangling of SAS with Royal Navy realities into a new, non-existent unit, a lie that should please his trainer.

"Wrong. You gave me that too easily. Even a blind man could see that you haven't been broken or hurt enough to stop struggling, so it's an obvious lie. How do you expect to survive in the field if you can't convince them that you know enough to be worth keeping alive?"

"Fuck it, LT." Sean pulls his head forward, forcing Viggo to either let go or grip harder. Much easier to work off a script, he thinks, than try to play it for real, but he goes on instinct and gut feelings. "I stall and that's not enough. I supply a quick answer and that's not enough either. Goddamned, I'm doing this right. You said misinformation. My captor wouldn't know Hereford from Culdrose from bloody friggin Sheffield. What the hell do you want from me?" He gasps for a breath after the long rambling.

Viggo drops Sean's head and looks down at in him disgust. "Oh, no. You're not doing it right until I tell you you're doing it right! Yes, you stalled, but your final answer was too pat. And just because your captors are idiots, don't think they're too stupid to use a map. C'mon, 17, think for a goddamned moment. Then we'll try this again. We'll do this until you get it right, and then we'll do it again. And if they have to scrape you off the floor by that time, well, it's no skin off my back. Clear?"

Sean doesn't say anything for the longest time. Doesn't feel it requires a response. Even bites back the smile creeping up at the thought of being scraped off the floor. Drops his head, lets his neck roll, stretch out the creases. Assesses the situation. Being smart-assed hasn't done it. It's pushing some of Viggo's buttons, but not quite all of them. "Clear, LT," he says finally. "Pure as crystal."

"Good." Viggo puts a knee into Sean's stomach, being very careful to avoid the vital bits. "Now. Name, rank, serial number."

The pressure isn't too bad. Sean's tempted to tell Vig to move his knee just a little lower and rub a bit, but he's sure that wouldn't be received well. _Might as well make myself an officer_. "Bean, Sean. Sub-Lieutenant. RN81493." Snapped out in precise POW-training monotone.

"Very well." Viggo's quite enjoying watching Sean's reactions. They're very...entertaining. Viggo's sure that it says something very perverted about him that he's more turned on by this than anything he and Sean've done in, oh, the past week. "So, Mr. Bean, just where were you born?"

"Hospital." Information not required by the rules of war, Sean remembers from somewhere in the recesses of his brain. And since misinformation didn't work so well, he's opting for no information. Or as close as he can get to it. He shrugs his shoulders, twisting wrists in the cuffs, which haven't started biting too badly into his flesh, though Sean can feel the start of a nice ligature left from the fall to the floor.

Viggo's having none of it. "_Which_ hospital?"

"One closest to me mum's, I reckon."

Viggo lets it go. "You have a father, Mr. Bean?"

"Must have." Sean's enjoying it way too much, playing the snarky POW, knowing just how much he's infuriating Viggo. He wonders why they haven't tried this before. "Kinda takes one of each."

"Ever heard of test tube, slu-," Viggo stops himself, then grins. "Mr. Bean, if you can't keep a respectful tongue in your head, I'm going to have to fill it with something else."

"Respectful," Sean repeats. "Would that be like 'fuck you, _sir_?" At some point, Sean realizes very well, he's going to reap the whirlwind otherwise known as Viggo's patience limit. And he's so looking forward to it. So much so it hurts. Mostly along the nerve endings in his leg, which are echoing from the blood trying its damnedest to pulse through his cock.

"It might. Your fate is in your hands, 17. What do you think? Or do you think? Pretty blonde like you, I know it's a strain."

"I _think_ you're more interested in fucking me than other way 'round, sir. And that the outcome of this training has less to do with how I respond than with how I perform." Sean pauses, cocks his head. "But I could be wrong. Sir."

That hurt. "You're very wrong," Viggo says coldly. "Especially if you think I'll violate my professional integrity just to get laid. I understand that you probably won't pass unless you _do_ offer your ass to everyone who matters, but I don't need a whore. And I don't fuck my subordinates. Ever."

The hurt cuts back just as quickly. "I haven't offered my ass to anybody, despite what you might think happened, and I'm not about to offer up to you without a damned good fight first." Sean licks too-dry lips. "And fucking ain't just physical, is it?" Maybe that was over the line. Maybe not. Sean's vision of where the line is drawn tonight is growing blurrier by the minute.

"Don't delude yourself. Fucking is nothing but physical. Fucking is pain. It's a way of asserting dominance. All animals do it. Why should we think humans are above that? But you're a marine, goddammit, albeit not a very good one.

"So shut up, buck up, and let me get on with my job."

_so shut up_ Sean does that, closes his mouth against the words that wanted to come out, the retaliation, the argument against Viggo's lie. _fucking is nothing but physica_l Sean turns himself inward. Thinks. Analyzes. Hell, fucking is everything but physical some days. It's a mind game. He knows. He has played it himself. Both sides. But no one, not any of the lovers who have broken and molded him over the years, plays it as well as Viggo. _it's a way of asserting dominance_ Sean rationalizes ... no, he understands ... that's why he's where he is, bound to a chair, cock pounding with heat and desire, raging against restraint, unwilling and unwanting to stop the downward spiral. It's the reason for the whole game, the lesson he'd learned years ago in Daragh's hands. _Dominance belongs to the submissive who refuses to safeword until the final line has been crossed_.

Viggo nods as Sean says nothing. Good, so he can take a hint. But Viggo isn't done. "What did you think it would be? 'Don't worry, it's only kinky the first time' and then being ordered to do it or I'll confiscate your dog tags?" Viggo laughs bitterly. "You stupid stupid fool."

"No." One syllable uttered almost inaudibly. A single word with too much meaning. No, Sean doesn't think that's the way it is, either in or out of character. No, he's not stupid. Too stubborn for his own good sometimes. But never stupid. He rolls his head backward, feigns boredom. Pushes his shoulders up, arches back, forces the cuffs to shift down a notch, weigh almost too heavily against his hands.

"Good. So you're not as far gone as I had thought." Viggo watches as Sean settles himself more into the chair, counts several heartbeats, and then kicks the bottom of the chair again, this time only slightly harder. Just enough to shake Sean up.

The vibration rattles through Sean's hips, careens up his spine and shakes his neck loose. He lurches forward, movement that only serves to strain his deltoids, jar that already aching left shoulder and rub his forearms against the chair back. He grimaces, grits his teeth against the instinctive cry of sudden pain and steels himself into what can only be seen as a glare. No, he's not that far gone, he thinks. Not by a long shot.

Oh, that's a nice reaction. Viggo can't help but reach out to pet Sean's head and stroke his hair. "Shall we continue?"

"Don't see what choice I have." For an instant, Sean hurts with the desire to push his head into Viggo's touch. He fights the urge, refusing to give into the emotion. "Not as if I'm going anywhere."

"If this were an actual interrogation, 17, this is where they would begin working towards Stockholm Syndrome. By the end of the first week, you would be eating out of their hands and loving every minute of it. Everybody breaks. Your objective is merely to break too late for their uses. Consider it your only goal in life until you get out of here."

Sean lets out a long breath. "Don't worry, LT. I plan on making you work for it."

"A true artist wouldn't even need to break a sweat. It's fairly easy, once you know the basics. You merely find the one thing the subject fears over all else.

What do you fear, Mr. Bean?"

"Very little." The truth. Other than the hatred of flying, Sean had outgrown most of his fears. Most of the ones he had now centered on his girls, but he and Viggo had agreed at the beginning the kids were off-limits when it came to their games. He'd even shed the fear that'd plagued him early on in their relationship, that Viggo wouldn't stay.

"Spiders? Heights? Blindness? Enclosed spaces? Come now, Bean. Surely there's something."

"No," he says quickly, cataloguing and ignoring spiders, heights and closed spaces. Sean laughs, recalling Brosnan's intense claustrophobia and how much he'd tortured him with it. Blindness? He didn't like being blindfolded. Had truly forced himself into the right headspace when it was required for Bravo. But not liking something didn't really qualify as a fear. Did it? He was thinking, tongue perched lightly against upper lip. A trained soldier wouldn't let on to his fear, even if he had one. "Can't say any of those really bother me."

"Castration, then? Bones breaking, mouth bleeding, teeth on the floor in front of you? Or does that turn you on?"

Sean shifts, just shy of a full squirm, at the first word. Maybe a fear. Definitely a dislike. Bones breaking don't bother him. Nor bleeding. He knows Vig well enough to know the teeth threat is empty, because he wouldn't do that much damage to his face. "Hmm. Tough options. Does making me bleed turn you on?"

"No," Viggo replies easily and moves his hand to cover Sean's balls. He squeezes them lightly. "But it seems it does something for you."

Whimper. Tiny moan escapes throat. Sean immediately sits up straighter, not altogether sure if he's pressing into Vig's hand or pulling back from it. _That definitely does something for me._

Wonderful sound. Viggo gives Sean's balls another squeeze and then pats the electrical tape covering Sean's cock. "You like this, don't you? Turns you on? You'll be easier to Stockholm than I ever imagined."

Body's natural reaction, Sean lies to himself in-character. In reality, he wonders how he's lasting this long, why he's not screaming for Viggo to just fuck him into the floor. "Not as much as you'd like to think," he manages to get out, nearly choking on the words as Viggo's familiar touch burns through tape and gauze.

"Oh?" He keeps his hand flat on Sean's thigh, palm covering Sean's cock. "I think you're lying."

"And I think you're hard up for a fuck, LT." Sean fights the damned obvious arousal, lets the smirk curl up the corner of his mouth, wonders just how long Viggo will let him get away with a level of snarkiness he'd been slapped down for numerous times before. "Training exercise or not, you ain't exactly my type."

Viggo stands and places a well-aimed kick at the side of Sean's left thigh. "I told you already. I don't go for that shit. If you're having trouble remembering that, I seriously doubt your that mental aptitude is enough that I can in good conscience recommend they keep you in the Royal Navy, let alone joint NATO operations. So stop playing the fool, or I'll go for something you'll be feeling for a long time."

"Do it already," Sean lashes out. The kick hurt, but not so badly as to stop playing. "So far, I'm not impressed with my captor. All he's done is bore me." Sean closes his eyes, breathes, reopens them. Stares directly at Viggo. "Go ahead, Mortensen, do what you want. I'm not breaking." He pauses. "And I'm not safewording out of it," he adds in a lower, softer voice.

Viggo bites his lip at the last. "If I can't trust you to safeword when it gets too much, then we're stopping now."

"Vig, we've had this talk before." Sean shakes his head. "I'll stop you before you hurt me too badly. We both know how high my threshold for this. We agreed on the limits before we ever started playing our games. I want you to hurt me just as much as you want to do it. So, give me a kiss, get back in character and let's see if you can make this trainee want to do anything to please his captor."

Viggo nods. It's not that he was doubting Sean, but the reassurance is still nice. Viggo leans over and kisses Sean as thoroughly as he can.

"I know you hate safewording, and I know why. But I don't want you to let that be a deterrent. If I find out later that you would have but you didn't for any reason, we're not going to do anything more and until you change your safeword. All right?"

_That's more like it_. There's a small part of Sean that wishes his hands were free, so he could clutch at Viggo, hold him in the kiss till they both gasped for air. But it's overridden by the pleasure core that wants his lover to attend to the less refined points of their game.

His breath catches as Viggo talks. His safeword and its history and why he's never changed it ... they aren't subject they talk about easily. "Yes, sir," he whispers. "Agreed."

"Good boy." Viggo backs up, turns around, and takes a deep breath to get himself back in role. He calms himself down forcefully and immerses himself in the character he's created for himself.

Then he turns back towards Sean and pulls all the bastards he's ever played into this one Bastard. He looks Sean up and down like he's not impressed at all, hooks his foot under the chair, and topples it backwards without any warning.

The move takes Sean by surprise. It shouldn't, not after what he's asked of Vig. But it does. And in the seconds before he hits the floor, he curses the rug-covered hardwood, which looks nice but doesn't do a damned thing to cushion the blow, and wonders why he didn't put in nice plush carpet. He knows. He's hit it before. But never with quite as much force he's about to experience.

He bends forward, tucks his chin in, consciously trying to avoid slamming his head into the wood. And as the chair finishes its descent, connects with the floor, he screams, not caring how it sounds. "Bloody hell." The pain strikes fast, cuffs jarring then tightening around his wrists, metal abrading flesh, drawing hints of blood. But before that can sink in, everything's pressed into Persian rug and oak floorboards by the chair and his own body weight. He doesn't hear the snap, but the ache ricocheting through his wrists would have him betting one or both could be broken. He breathes out in ragged noises, whimpers with no syllables.

That's more like it. Viggo touches Sean's toes, wiggling them around. "Shall I break these, or have I made my point?"

"Which point was that?" Words sputtered out between winces. The pain is still on the sweet side of excruciating. Broken wrist is one thing. Dislocated shoulder another. Both manageable. Broken toes, however, give Sean just an ounce of pause. Damned hard to walk. "That you can hurt me? Or that I'm not learning fast enough?"

"That testing me won't do you a bit of good. Keep a civil tongue in your head and you might come out of this alive. Lose that tongue, and you'll probably lose your life." Viggo takes Sean's big toe between fingers and pinches it. "And pretty painfully, as well."

In a strange way, Viggo's action is soothing, given that the pressure points in the big toe correspond to the brain and if Sean had a migraine, it's exactly what he'd want to Vig to do. As is, it takes his mind off the pain in his shoulders and arms. But he's not telling his pseudocaptor that. He opts to stay silent, try to shift a little of his weight down and off his arms.

Viggo moves his attentions downward and begins to tickle the bottom of Sean's foot. He scrapes his nail lengthwise, up and down, wondering if a foot massage might be in order. He's curious if he can make Sean come like this.

Sean reflexes, involuntarily pulls his foot up. Except with his ankle taped there's not much of anywhere for it to go. He wonders if anyone's safeworded on a massage. He bites back the chuckle at the tickle, turning the sound into a weird snort.

Viggo figures Sean would probably do his damnest to kick him should Viggo laugh at him. He makes slow circles with his thumbs on the pad of Sean's foot. "Eating. Out. Of. My. Hand," he whispers. "Don't think I can't make it happen."

"Kill me with kindness. Didn't think that was your style." Sean squirms, as much as a man who's handcuffed, taped to a chair and pinned to the floor can squirm. His foot is getting all the attention, but his cock is definitely taking notice. There may not be a spot on the bottom of the foot directly linked to his groin, but there are enough close enough to it to send the blood rushing south. Or is it north, since he's on his back, feet up in the air. He shakes his head at the insanity of even processing the thoughts.

"Not planning on killing you, not just yet. First I'm going to put you through the ringer, give you the complete experience. Then I'll see if there's anything in you worth salvaging.

"Do you know about dogs, 17? If you beat a dog every day, he'll become savage. If you pet him every day, he'll love you. But if you beat him on odd days and pet him on even days, he'll go mad. Become completely useless. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Explains a helluva lot about me, doesn't it," Sean mutters under his breath. He shifts the wrong way, exerting pressure on his wrists, forcing one cuff to rub against the other, both then pressing directly under a chair back rail, gouging his wrists. _Get past it, Bean. You've been in a lot worse pain_. Grimace. Wince. Breathe out.

Viggo pretends not to hear that. He and Sean can talk later about just what constitutes abuse and having yourself stolen instead of being given willingly. "Do you think you're a dog, 17?" Viggo poses the question academically, but doesn't stop the massage.

"No." First easy question of the night. Not that he's sure Viggo even wants an answer. Or cares what the answer is. Sean's foot reflexes on its own from the touches.

"Why not? Dogs are loyal, which you profess to be. Dogs are simple-minded, which I know you are. Dogs are furry, slobbering fools. Can't see how you don't measure up."

The smirk is all in Sean's mind. He opens his mouth, starts to defend himself, but decides not to. He knew before he opened his mouth there wasn't a good answer. Vig's like that, can take Sean's words and twist 'em so much he forgets what he said to begin with. He lets the insult couched in compliment slide by, leaving the discussion of their comparative intellectual abilities to a later, more sane, moment. Right now, his focus is on the pain in his upper body, the arousal in his midsection and the damned idiot tickling his feet.

Viggo was hoping for an answer, something to give him an excuse to put a razor to Sean. There's something about a blade against skin that always has him shivering. Vig doesn't get off on hurting people. He gets off on the way they look while he does it, the sounds they make, the way they love what he's doing to them. Viggo curious what sort of sounds Sean would make if Viggo nicked him.

"All this petting. Comparing me to a dog. You sure you don't get off on touching me, LT?"

Hell yeah. He could get off just looking at Sean also. Didn't have to be touching, though it was a nice bonus. "You sure you want to keep mouthing off? Do you have any idea what I'm doing to you right now?"

"Annoying the bloody hell outta me." The voice is all Sean's, not a character he's playing. And he mentally slaps himself for lashing out at Viggo the minute the words come out. "Testing my endurance," he says, slipping back into roleplay. "Didn't know foot massage was a certified torture technique, though. I am learning something after all, LT."

Viggo steps backwards. "If that's the way you feel about it," he says flatly. "I'll be back when you feel like talking."

_That pretty mouth gets you in more trouble than your pride will let you get out of._ Branagh's words. Accurate. Sean had never intentionally tried to aggravate Vig. Ever. He just had a nasty habit of saying what was on his mind. And refusing to take the words back.

Sean bypasses the mental slap this time and just slams his head backward against the floor. Might as well have a headache to go with the broken bones, he rationalizes, if there were a sane thought in his brain.

Staying out Sean's very limited line of sight and being careful to be as quiet as possible, Viggo goes over to a pair of jeans draped over a lamp. He doesn't bother to check whose pants, but there's a bulge in them that suggests cigarettes. And a lighter. Sean, in all his wisdom, had bought candles and nothing to light them with.

Turning his head doesn't help. Vig's out of sight. Still in the house. No door closed. _Okay, Vig, we've hit on my one true fear. You leaving_. Sean mentally runs through how he'd get himself out of this if Vig does decide to leave. _Could rock the chair over_. But then there's getting out of the tape. Enough pulling might do that. _It'll hurt like hell, probably take off some skin_. And then there's the handcuffs. Could dislocate his shoulder. That's pain he can tolerate. "Fuck," he mutters as his cock hardens at the scenario playing out in his mind of just how much pain he can endure. _How close are you to seeing the world in shades of white?_

Viggo pulls the Bic lighter out the front pocket and tests it out. It'll do. A pack of Sean's cigarettes are easy found in the back pocket. It's half finished, and Viggo figures that if Sean makes a fuss about it, he can always buy him a new pack.

Viggo plays with the lighter for a few more minutes, watching Sean out of the corner of his eye to see if there's any reaction.

Click. Familiar sound. Click. Again. Sean closes his eyes. Click. Faint odor. Chemical flame. Click. His lighter. He cranes his head in the direction of sound and smell. Can't see Vig. Knows what he's doing though. Playing with fire. He lets out a breath. A wry smile creases his lips.

Viggo spots an ashtray cowering in the corner and puts his loot onto it. He takes a folding chair from the closet and brings them over to in front of Sean. Viggo places the ashtray on the seat and faces the chair away from Sean. It takes some effort to lift Sean up from that ridiculous position on the floor, but Viggo manages. He says nothing, but smiles as wickedly as he can. This was a fun idea.

The pain in being uprighted is nearly as bad as it was in falling. One of Sean's wrists is numb, the other throbbing. But it's all worth it when he sees Vig's smile. The silence between them echoes off the walls. His own smile widens, tongue slipping out to lick lips, linger, trust and love conveyed in simple gestures.

Placing the ashtray on the floor, Viggo sits backwards on the chair. Legs spread and comfortable on either side of the padded back, Viggo reaches slowly downwards and picks up the pack of cigarettes. He makes sure Sean gets a good long glimpse of them. Viggo takes one out, puts it between his lips, and then lights it.

_My cigs_. Smile turns to a smirk. _Last fuckin' pack in the house, too_. Smirk shifts into a forced grin. _Not saying a word_.

Viggo is severely tempted to blow smoke in Sean's face and wipe that look off his face. Instead he leans forward and pulls Sean's shirt up and stuffs it into his mouth. He's never done this to Sean and he's not positive what will happen.

Viggo smokes the cigarette down to where he figures Sean won't yell at him later for wasting a perfectly good fag, and takes it between two fingers. He leans towards Sean and puts the cigarette out on Sean's right nipple.

There's exactly 32 seconds between realizing what Viggo plans to do and the moment the cigarette touches his flesh. Half a minute to spit out the starchy shirt and say the word. It takes Sean 27 seconds of that to rationalize why he's not safewording, then there's 5 seconds of waiting, remembering and preparing for the pain.

It's instantaneous, scorching. A tingle that sears into a radiating anguish. His body jerks back, instinct overriding desire, and he bites down hard on the wadded cotton. His eyes water. The pain winds itself into a throbbing ache as Viggo grinds the cigarette out.

When there isn't much more the cigarette can do, Viggo pulls it away from Sean's chest and drops it into the ashtray. There's a remarkably beautiful burn mark encircling Sean's nipple. Viggo wishes he could press his fingers into it, play around a little, but has a feeling that Sean would safeword if he did. Vig's willing to push Sean to safewording, but not on some silly thing like that.

Sean blows out a long breath, sucks in one and repeats the process. Several times. He knows the pain will subside. He knows, when he thinks rationally, with a mature 40something brain, he shouldn't subject himself to the pain. But the sadomasochistic seducer living in his psyche could scream a lot more loudly than the sane half of him. And he always gave in. So he bit down harder on the soaked shirt and tried to figure out where Vig was heading. Futile effort. He had little success second-guessing Viggo in their sex games, another fact that made painpleasure centers of his brain shout with joy.

Viggo waits until Sean has noticeably calmed down and then reaches into the pack and takes out another cigarette. He lights it, then holds it in his mouth while he pulls the shirt down. Doing his best not to cackle evilly, Viggo takes the fag from between his lips and sticks it in Sean's mouth.

Sucking greedily, Sean inhales the smoke, gasp after precious gasp. He reads Vig's face, shakes his head at how his lover is holding in the laugh, sarcastic remark or three other things he wants to share.

Viggo has to break the silence. Sean looks so out of place and at odds with himself. Anachronistic. Content. "Enjoying this, 17?"

Sean rolls his eyes at the question. The answer he might give is way too long and complicated with the cigarette in his mouth. He clenches it between his teeth and mutters out a backup response through the smoke. "Watcha think?"

"I think you're becoming complacent."

"Bloody hell. No." Or at least that's what Sean thinks he says, as the words are mangled out of his mouth.

"Really? How confident are you of," without pausing, Viggo reaches over to take the cigarette out of Sean's mouth and hovers his hand just above Sean's unmarked nipple, "that fact?" Viggo blanks his face as he touches the butt to Sean's chest.

"Confident enough," Sean says as Vig pulls the cigarette from his mouth. His thought process is interrupted, waylaid or otherwise sidetracked as the burning embers connect with flesh. He winces, flinches. "Enough to know that bloody well hurts," he grunts out through the pain. "You date James Dean in your last life?"

"No. Least, don't think I did. Can't really remember the past lives," Viggo says honestly, completely out of character, and he forces himself back into it. "And why the fuck does it matter who I make my bitch, Bean?"

_We'll talk later_ Sean thinks, laughing to himself at Viggo's lapse, silently mouthing "love you" behind the smile _'cause I'm betting you did_. "Don't matter to me, LT. Not one damned bit." In character. Terse words. "And if I'm your bitch, this must be foreplay."

"Oh, you're not my bitch," Viggo says. "Because I'd make damned sure you'd recognize foreplay." Is this foreplay? He doubts Sean will let him fuck him later, but he might be able to convince a blowjob out of him. Should there be foreplay for blowjobs?

"Could've fooled me." Sean drops the smile into a frown, lets out a sigh. "And here I was psyching myself up to be fucked by the great Mister Mortensen himself." Sean doesn't add that it would have to be a slow, gentle fucking, on his back, with his arms stretched out rather than cuffed and battered. And more than likely after his wrists had been well-bandaged. "Course, I still wouldn't give you any more information."

"You're still suffering under the delusion that I care what's going on in that little airhead of yours. First rule of the field, expect nothing. Second rule?" Viggo prompts, knowing that he's setting himself up.

"Expect nothing to hurt like hell," Sean deadpans. He's under no delusion that he could give the right answer. Or even close to the answer Viggo wants to hear. So he opts for, at least, a truthful answer.

It takes Viggo a moment to wrap his head around that. He smiles. "Precisely. But you like it that way, don't you, slut?" It seems the right time to give Sean that title. He's wanted to almost since Sean sat down in the chair. Slut for this, slut for him, always willing to take it another step deeper. _His_ slut.

_Slut_. The word rolls off Viggo's tongue and into Sean's brain, where it sinks into its familiar, well-worn spot. He knows of very few words that describe him more adequately. He never liked the word before Viggo, who taught him with patience and braided leather and, oh yes, a healthy dose of love, that being _his_ slut was the most coveted title he could hope to hold in their relationship. Far more repercussions than _lover_. Much more responsibility than _husband_. Feeding his pain addiction was just an incredibly pleasurable fringe benefit.

"Yes," he says, almost inaudible, wondering if they've slipped out of roleplay, moved past the scenario into just him and Vig, hurting each other in the best possible way.

'Yes'. He said 'yes'. Viggo doesn't know - doesn't care - if Sean's in role or not, just hearing that word, that answer, in response to such a loaded question sends sparks traveling through Viggo's body. "Good boy."

Viggo's half-smile has Sean's cock interested again, blood coursing. "Sometimes." It's a murmur. "Sometimes not." Words softly falling out of his mouth. Sean's mind is elsewhere, floating in the pain. He shifts, a tinge of numbness in the hip, tracing down the thigh. He shrugs his shoulders, releasing endorphins that surge downward and recoil off his wrists, etching a shiver of borderline orgasm through his body.

"Always," Viggo promises. "Always my boy. You're not always good," that's back in role and Viggo makes sure it comes out harsh. "I've had better and most certainly _will_ have better. But I think I'll keep you around. Keep you naked except for you dogtags. And I'll do that until you fucking convince me that you won't get yourself killed in the field!"

Sean closes his eyes, tilts his head back, lets the pain rush through him, Viggo's voice caress him. He breathes slowly, methodically, in and out. Reopening his eyes, he tilts his head straight. "You do that, LT. Keep me around. Train me right." Lips part, tongue slinks out and back. "Make me your own," slight pause, "Perfect. Toy. Soldier."

_Why, Mr. Bean, I could almost begin to think you're trying to seduce me_. Viggo leans forward until his chair is almost tipping over, and does his best to capture Sean's tongue. He misses, hitting Sean's chin instead, and growls. Dammit. "Wasn't the sort of training I had in mind," Viggo says, lips brushing against Sean's stubble, "but it'll do." Viggo pulls back slightly and then bites down.

"Fuck," Sean shouts. Instinct overcomes reason, even though the pain isn't that horrible. Mostly it shoots straight to his groin, a damned uncomfortable sensation at the moment. As Viggo's teeth disengage from flesh, Sean shakes his head. Intentionally. Near-violently. Slamming against Viggo's jaw. Not really caring how little or much damage he does. "Bastard," he sneers. "That wasn't exactly the training I had in mind either."

Viggo doesn't see it coming. It's somehow more painful that way. Sean hit him right against where he'd had some work done in his molars, and pain shoots through his gums from his cheek. It's not enough to loosen the teeth, just enough to make Viggo want to hurt Sean. Very. Bad. Maybe break a chair against his shoulders. Crack his ribs. Make him fucking _feel_ it.

Viggo reaches into the box and pulls out the black blindfold. He stretches it between his hands and contemplates his prisoner.

Sean's smarting himself from the blow, sure he's going to have a nasty headache come morning. Provided he's conscious enough coming morning to realize it. He shakes it off, then works out his jaw, the muscles tensing in his neck. Watches Viggo's movements. Smiles when he pulls out the black cloth. Blindfolding's not so bad.

Viggo can see the thoughts going through Sean's head. Viggo's only used a blindfold before on light stuff. Cut off his sight and suck him. Cut off his sight and spank him. Nothing that would bring him even close to safewording.

Viggo decides he's going to set out to destroy that conclusion.

"Dropping back to tried-and-true methods," Sean says softly, neither truly in nor out of character. "Blind your victim. Disorient him."

"Wrong," Viggo answers evenly. He wraps the cloth around his left hand a few times and then takes the end between his thumb and first finger. He begins to twist his right hand inward.

Realization filters slowly into Sean's brain, seeping its way in and around synapses floating in pain. Sean watches, his mouth opening and closing, wanting to say something, but not sure of the words. His eyes follow Viggo's fingers, twisting and curling cloth. Viggo can't be doing what Sean knows he's doing. He can't be going to ... they haven't done that, never talked about it ... "No." One word. Not really a question. Nor a declaration. Just a single syllable hanging on Sean's tongue.

"Yes," Viggo answers. He waits for a moment longer, giving Sean a chance to say that one fucking word he never says, and then stands up. He makes his way behind the chair, unzipping himself as he goes. If he's going to go for the safeword, he might as well go all the way.

Sean tenses, tightens his shoulders, pulls against his restraints. Blood trickles down his fingers from where the steel cuffs have finally rubbed flesh raw. He tries to center himself, reassure himself that if Viggo really is going to do _it_ ... the voice in his head laughs that he can't even say the word silently ... he trusts Viggo. With his life.

Viggo takes advantage of the slack in the silk to pull down his boxers. It's a little difficult to get the elastic around his erection, but Viggo manages. "Remember, 17," Viggo whispers as he presses himself up against Sean's forearms, "this is for your own good."

_for your own good_ Sean sinks deeper, willingly taking himself to a place he hasn't visited in a long time, winding a path through the labyrinth of memories. Familiar words. _Sean, trust me. It'll be good for you_. Different voice. Sean wages war with his own mind, telling himself he's safe with Viggo, that _this_ man won't hurt him, won't let Sean hurt himself as much as those who stood by, watched, urged him on.

"Don't," he says. "Not this." He knows how half-hearted the plea sounds, and he's betting it'll fall on unlistening ears, just like it had all those years ago.

"Yes," Viggo repeats, growls, for the moment not caring for the way desperation is leaking into Sean's voice. He thrusts once against Sean's twisted arms and then drops the makeshift garrote in front of Sean's eyes to rest against his neck. "This. Failure, 17. Any last words?"

"I trust you." Hesitant words, nearly whispered out as Sean registers the familiar pressure against his neck. His world blackens as he closes his eyes, then the images begin.   


> _"Kenneth, don't." Satin draped over his shoulder. "Promise. I won't do it again." A seemingly endless length of black satin, loosely folded over. "I'll be good." Twisting around his throat.  
> "I know you will." A whisper against his ear. "And this lesson will be good for you." Sean shivers at the kiss on his ear. "You trust me?"  
> "Yes." It hadn't been a lie. Not then. There had been implicit trust in the power play between them. Kenneth didn't tie Sean's hands. He simply told Sean to keep his palms flat against the wall. And Sean did it._

Sean steadies himself for what's to come, tracing out in his mind the minutes from first pressure to choking to losing consciousness.

Sean trusts him. He's known it for a long time, but it's a very sobering thought now. Sean trusts him. Viggo's read conflicting reports on how long it takes to lose brain cells. He isn't going to chance anything. Ten seconds on, ten seconds off. He kisses Sean's sweaty hair and steps back, tightening the silk against Sean's throat. It takes very little effort to cross his wrists behind Sean's neck.

He's going to earn Sean's trust.

Sean swallows, involuntary reaction to the constriction. The sensation of floating is immediate, moreso because his eyes are shut. No reality to ground him. _"Let go, Sean. Don't fight it."_ The voice is too real, even though he knows it's in his head. Sean opens his eyes and stares ahead. Where the chair should be stands an old lover, arms crossed and leaning back against the wall. "No," he whispers as the silk tightens.

Viggo holds his breath so he can hear Sean clearly. Not the safeword. Damn the man. How far did he think Viggo could take this? Viggo yanks the cloth taut and holds it there.

> _"Does it feel good, Sean?" The imaginary Branagh sneers, walks toward Sean. "Tight enough?" Leans down, too close. Are you counting the seconds till you black out? Lips brush his._

Sean fights for breath, as much against imaginary lips bruising his as against the silk tightening around his throat, constricting the air passage more with each passing second. He jerks forward. Vig's hands pull back.

> _The kiss deepens. "You won't say it." Taunting voice. "It's simple, Sean. Say the word." Talk. Kiss. Talk. Or do you trust him to stop before you're dead?_

Viggo pauses, waits. He doesn't like the way Sean is shaking. It's too real. This is all too real. Viggo starts to slacken the silk, but stops. Sean hasn't said so yet. And the time isn't yet up.

Sean's eyes are too dry. He tries to focus. See through the mirage.

> _"You're no better than when I left you. Pathetic addict."_

Sean knows it's all his imagination, the increasing lack of oxygen. Branagh isn't really there. Viggo wouldn't allow it.

> _"So desperate. You're afraid to stop it. If you do, he might never take you this far again."_

Not true. Silent words. Sean's throat aches.

> _Branagh hunkers down in front of Sean. "You never said it for me. You never let me break you."_

Sean drops his head as far as the silken binding will allow, choking himself as his forehead tilts forward. "No, Kenneth, I didn't." Sean's voice is raspy, wispy, words slurred and slammed together. "He's better than you." A breath and Sean releases a final whisper. "White."

Viggo drops the cloth.

His hands are shaking so badly that he drops the key twice before he can bring it out of his pocket to unlock Sean's wrists. He ends up on the floor somehow, grabs around for scissors to cut Sean's legs free.

He safeworded. He fucking safeworded. Vig could throw a party.

The apparition dissipates, along with the voice in Sean's head, as Sean gasps for returning air. He doesn't move. Can't. His wrists fall free of the cuffs simply because that's how gravity works. He still isn't sure what it is he's done. Of exactly why he stopped Viggo. And he's afraid, just like the voice said.

Viggo tears the tape away from Sean's ankles, ripping it as much as he can. Sean's cock is next. Viggo does his best to be gentle. Sean's had enough of this.

Sean, though...Sean's just sitting there. Not helping. Not hindering. Viggo prays he hasn't gone into shock.

"It's all right." Viggo doesn't let his voice go above a whisper. He doesn't want to scare Sean. "You're safe. Everything's fine, Sean.

"I love you."

"I know." It's all Sean can do to form the words, transport them from brain to mouth. He's tripping down off the pain's endorphin rush. "So, did I pass the test, LT?" He shrugs down into the chair, content to drift right out of it onto the floor.

"With flying colors, 17." Viggo brings Sean's hands from behind the chair and starts to look them over. Sean's right wrist looks to be broken and his left badly sprained. There might be more damage; he doesn't know. "Sean, I'm going to need to patch you up. Are you thirsty?"

"Very." Sean swallows, throat dry, brain connecting with just how drained his body is. "Patch me up?" He winces as Viggo's fingers touch his wrists. "Right one's broken, I think. They both hurt like hell." He half-smiles. "Pulled my shoulder out of joint again."

Viggo begins to make a mental checklist. He's not sure that he's equipped to handle anything broken. "Anything else?"

"Psyche's a bit ripped." The smile widens, more genuine that it's been in several minutes. His head is slowly clearing, reality setting in. "There's silvadene in the refrigerator you can put on the burns."

Two things he can do something about. Viggo moves his hand across Sean's chest and pokes at the burns. "No nipple rings for you, young man, for a good long time. As for your psyche," Viggo hesitates but, dammit, he has to know. "In your hallucinations. Just how...how _far_ were they?"

"Ouch. Don't do that." Semi-serious tone. The burns don't really hurt that much, although Vig's right about the nipple rings. Not that Sean was planning on getting them anyway.

The other question he can't throw off quite as lightly. He owes Viggo an answer. An honest answer. "All the way. It never stopped being you doing it. I knew that." A slight pause. "But Kenneth was standing right there in front of me. Making sure I remembered." Sean shifts his left hand enough to lay it over Viggo's hand. The throbbing is bad, enough so that he doesn't want to think about how moving the other hand will feel. "How he'd wrapped the satin around my throat. How I'd stood there, hands unbound and pressed against the wall, and willingly let him tighten it till I passed out."

_Oh, shit_. Viggo hadn't known Sean'd done this before. If he had...well, he still would have done it. But he'd have talked Sean through it more. Chased away the demons. And Branagh. Fucking Kenneth Branagh. Viggo would track him down and give him a piece of his mind if that didn't mean leaving Sean for a few days to do it. He wouldn't bring Sean with. If Viggo had his way, Sean would never have to look at Branagh again, whether by celluloid or social life.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to drive up memories."

"Don't apologize." Sean wants to hold Viggo, preferably curled up in the blankets on the bed. "The memories drove me to safeword. That's something I've never done." Truth out. Maybe more of a confession that Viggo wants. Or can handle.

"You're never safeworded?! Jesus Christ, Sean, you've been doing this for how long?" Viggo thinks he should be honored that Sean gifted him with it. Or scared at how much history he's dealing with. Sean's never said no before. Taken everything and never said stop. Jesus fucking Christ.

Sean cringes, as much from the level of Viggo's voice as what he knows is going through his lover's head. "You want an explanation? Or you just want to scream at me a little bit longer. And before you answer, mind helping me move to one of the more comfortable pieces of furniture we own?"

"Godammit, Sean! You can not just throw something at me like this and expect me to take it with a nod and a smile. Don't throw it back at me, damn you-." Viggo stops himself, reminds himself that putting Sean on the defensive when he's hurt will only make him say things they'll both regret, orders himself to back down. Sean's temper is a prickly thing. "Sean. Please. Just answer me this. Did none of them try to push you, or were you just too proud?"

"Move me to the bloody bed, Viggo," Sean says tersely, "and I'll answer your questions. Every last one of them. Just get me prone." Sincere grimace. "Please."

That's an evasion if Viggo's ever heard one. "Fine," he says flatly. He gets an arm beneath Sean's knees and one balanced under Sean's unharmed shoulder. He stands up, staggers slightly, and takes the three steps necessary to deposit Sean on top of blankets.

"Much better." Sean's body sinks into the comforting warm blankets, his head into the plush pillows. He's not evading Vig. He's not sure where to start. Or how best to answer Vig's questions. "About 20 years," he says. "You asked how long I'd been doing this. Two decades, off and on." He calms his breathing. "Until now I never had a good reason to safeword. Wouldn't with Kenneth. Not sure he ever expected me to. Part of the reason for that particular word. Or that he'd pay attention if I did." Sean watches the anger seethe in Vig's eyes. "Not totally his fault, Vig. I was young. And stupid. And I was willing ... no, I wanted to take everything he'd give me. No holds barred."

Bastard. He got Sean into this, explained him the rules, and then didn't fucking follow them. There's something to be said for capital punishment. And torture. To hell with pacifism, some people fucking deserve it. "And the others?"

Vig's angry. Sean knows it. And there's no way around making him angrier. Then there's the fact that Sean is guessing he has to answer all the questions _before_ he gets any medical attention.

"Daragh never pushed me that hard." Sean shakes his head. That's not the best way to put it. Because the bloody Irishman had left more physical scars on his body than Branagh ever did. "Honestly, Vig, Daragh had an uncanny ability to stop the instant before I'd consider safewording. Knew exactly where the edge was." He lets out a sigh, expelling it on a long, drawn-out breath.

No quarter for bushed Englishmen. Viggo's beyond caring for how much he hurt Sean. He knows, goddamit, _know_ that he's been hurt more. Better. Further. And never fucking said the word. "And Purefoy? And Terry?"

Sean wants to sink into the bedcovers. Vig's in one of his calmly mad states. The madder he gets, the calmer he gets. And it drives Sean insane. He would feel infinitely better if Vig were ranting. Or at least thinks he'd feel better. At least he'd know what Vig was thinking. But, then again, he's not sure he wants to know that. Because that might realize his worst fears: That Vig won't want him anymore.

"Nigel doesn't count," Sean says slowly. "That was fucking, pretty much pure and simple." Sean stops, looks up at Vig, tries to find reassurance in his eyes. "James, however," his voice drops, "he was more like ... he fed on the pain as much as I did ... and he took up where Daragh ..." Sean closes his eyes, breath hitching as he recalls the aftermath of a stormy night in the Ukraine when makeup wouldn't come near covering the three men's collective bruises.

Viggo marvels at just how much Sean put up with. None of these men cared. He'd thought Daragh, maybe, from what he'd heard of the man, but if he handed Sean over to some bastard who only wanted someone to hurt...that's not something done by someone who cares. Viggo's always known that Sean was stronger than he looked. He had to be, with lovers like those. Damn them. They had no right to do what they did.

Viggo reaches out and covers Sean's left hand with his "It's ok, Sean. I'm not upset." Complete lie, but Sean should not be the recipient of it. Not here, not now. Now like this.

"You lie about as badly as I do." Sean laughs. "Kinda pathetic for actors." He twines his fingers up into Viggo's, ignoring the pain as his wrist stretches already aching muscle. "You want to hurt every one of them for what you think they did to me." He presses lightly. "And you want to know what makes you different. Why I said the word for you."

"The thought did cross my mind," Viggo admits. Both of them, really. Hurt them for hurting Sean and wondering what button he pushed that the others had been unable to reach.

"I didn't want to make you hurt me that much. Didn't want to make you stop yourself when you really didn't want to." Sean scrunches down into the pillow. He's damned close to falling asleep, just from the mental exhaustion. "Mostly, it's because I love you. I can't say that about any of the others. Not even Daragh."

"Love you, too," Viggo replies softly. He doesn't want to disturb Sean, but the wrist doesn't look good and needs to be treated. "Sean? What's that hospital you have friends at?"

"Number's on speed dial," Sean says before realizing how it sounds. Explaining that it's handy because of the girls probably wouldn't make much difference. "It's direct to ER desk. Tell 'em who you're calling for and ask they have a bed free."

Viggo nods. He'll ask Sean about it later. He hits the third number on the speed dial and does what Sean said. Bed's free, according to the nurse on call, and say hello to Mr. Bean for Valerie.

"Sean, I'm going to need you to get up. Can you do that?"

"Don't exactly have much of a choice, do I?" Sean would much prefer to just lie on the bed, fall asleep and wake up when it's all over, but since that's not an option, he shifts slightly, pushing himself up on his elbows. It hurts, much worse than he wants to admit. "Might grab me some sweats. And the grungy trainers."

The sneakers were found under the bed after a brief search and gray sweats that Viggo suspected weren't really gray at all lay in the second drawer. Sean can go without boxers. Viggo says a quick prayer that the nurses are discreet and don't ask too many questions about the origin of Sean's injuries, and begins the laborous process of getting Sean into clothing.

As he's dressing, or being dressed as the case were, it dawns on Sean that his skin is red and chafed where Viggo had ripped off the tape. "At least that'll be covered by the sweats," he mutters to himself as Viggo gently maneuvers his arms into a short-sleeved t-shirt. Sean winces and grimaces and moans all the way to the hospital, lamenting that he can't even properly bury his head in his hands because his wrists hurt so goddamned much.

Viggo checks Sean in, amazed at how quickly they're rushed through. It seems that they've seen it all and better, which makes Viggo wonder just how long Sean's been patronizing this hospital, and how he got them to be so discreet. He finds himself looking back over his shoulder every few minutes, half-expecting a photographer to jump out and capture Sean's battle-weary look for the world to see.

"Calm down, mate." Sean resists the urge to lean over and kiss Vig, who's standing by the gurney. He knows they're safe, that no one's going to ask too many questions, but that would be tempting fate just a bit more than either of them are comfortable with. "Val here's going to take care of it." He nods to the raven-haired nurse checking his vitals.

"Mark on today?" he asks her.

"No, you've got Eric. I called him down myself." She makes a note on the chart. "So, what stupid thing did you do today?"

Before he can answer, the curtain draws back and in walks a bleachblond who is definitely older than the 20something he looks. "MisterB, bang yourself up a bit?"

Viggo looks like a deer caught in the headlights. He tightens his hold on the metal rod that's closest to Sean's hand, and tries not to do anything stupid. Sean knows these people. He trusts them. They aren't going to call the cops and report domestic abuse.

"Still haven't come outta the punk phase, Eric?" Sean's voice is lighthearted. "Sure your mum'll be happy when you grow up." The banter is familiar, easy.

"Yours, too, if you plan on growing up." Eric touches the left wrist, rolls it gently in his hand. "Flex your fingers." Sean does so with a minimal amount of pain. "You're right-handed, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Sean sighs.

"Bad news, then." Eric lays the hand down and turns his attention to the right wrist. Sean winces the second his fingers touch it. "Wiggle 'em." Sean barely moves the fingers in response. "You actually broke something this time. X-ray shows fractures in two bones. Left one's just badly sprained. I'll wrap it. But this one's gonna take a cast." Eric lays the bruised hand back onto the gurney. "Not even going to ask about the abrasions and ligatures." He leans in. "Mark and me can buy ya some padded ones for Christmas?"

Viggo blushes as Sean laughs. He hasn't been noticed yet, and hopes it'll stay that way. Get Sean good as new and then take him home. Nothing else in the plan.

"Very funny, Eric." Each turn of his wrist while being casted draws out more pain. Sean lets out a breath, half-smiles at Vig. Wants to reassure him it's not his fault, but this isn't the place or time. "Think it'll heal alright?"

"You're not going to be doing any fancy swordplay for a few months." Eric starts the final wrap of the cast, leaving it with a nice red cover. "But nothing on the x-ray indicated you needed pins in it, so that's a good sign. Now, cast is gonna be on for six weeks. Minimum. You'll be able to use the fingers, but that's about it. This other wrist should start to feel better in a week or so, but be careful not to reinjure it." Eric picked up the chart and started making notes. "I'm gonna give you some major painkillers, cause this is gonna hurt like hell later tonight. Promise me you won't get addicted."

"Yes, sir," Sean snaps out.

Viggo freezes at the word. Sean gave him a list of people he's _played_ with, and Viggo trusted it. Viggo doesn't mind, really, that Sean's fucked half of London, but he never expected to meet someone who's dommed Sean in the middle of a hospital.

"Cut the dramatics, Bean. I'm not on the nominating committee." Eric flashes a wide smile as he hold out the prescriptions. "One's for the most intense pain, which you're going to feel as soon as the shock wears off. Second's milder, more of a sedative, cause sleeping on that's gonna be a bit rough. Third's an antibiotic, just to be on the safe side."

"Alright." Sean looks over at Viggo, holds up wrapped hands. "You mind?"

"Make sure he takes them just like ordered," Eric says as he passes off the pieces of paper to Viggo. "No undue stress on the wrists. Or that shoulder, which I'm betting he dislocated again, but you pushed back in."

Viggo takes the orange cylinders, taking special note of which is which. There's no chance he's going to get Sean get addicted. Withdrawal is not pain he can get off on.

"Yes, Doctor..." Viggo prompts, knowing they haven't been introduced, knowing that the name is on the tag off the coat, knowing that Sean'll think he's trying to make him feel guilty, but still curious as to how the two know each other.

Sean looks up at the pause. "Shite. Sorry." Sean's not sure if he's supposed to feel guilty for not introducing them or for doing it honestly. "Eric Andrews, trauma doc extraordinaire." He motions between the two men. "Viggo Mortensen, partner in everything that matters." He smiles. "And my date for Mark's party, provided I'm not in traction."

"Nice to meet you," Eric says.

Viggo shakes his hand. "How do you do?" Sean's date? For what?

Would he have to wear a tie?

"I don't envy you the task of keeping him in one piece," Eric says as they release hands. "You're free to go. Now get out so I can deal with some really sick people."

"Sure. See ya in a few weeks." Sean hops off the gurney. "Take me home, Vig?"

"Your wish's my command," Viggo offers Sean his arms and, with a nod to Doctor Eric, leads Sean out of the hospital. He has permanent markers in the car and he very much wants to get back to marking Sean, albeit in a less than permanent fashion this time.

In the morning, they'll talk.


End file.
